FrUk drabbles and otherwise
by BrownEyedGurl33
Summary: Previously New Fuel to a Lingering Flame. I have decided to keep the ficlets and drabbles I write for FrUk, my OTP, in one, organized, place. Reviews would be nice, but not necessary..Rated M for possible scenarios in the future.
1. New Fuel to a Lingering Flame

They had nothing to say to each other. The awkward silence filled the air like a toxin, and suddenly it was hard to breathe, the tension choking them both. Francis was the first to break the silence, exhaling deeply and glancing at his former lover with a soft, almost broken smile.

"Bonjour, Arthur. I...did not expect you."

His words hung in the air for a moment, suspended again in the silence that quickly refilled the empty space. Arthur's gaze held fast to the others, as if he was afraid to look away, for fear of his calm exterior crumbling into the nervous wreck he was inside. He knew that the few words Francis had said could never be more true then at that moment. Francis could not have expected him. In a way, he didn't expect himself. He didn't understand why he found himself hastily slipping into his shoes and tugging on his sweater (the same sweater given to him by Francis almost a year ago. If he breathed deeply, it still smelt like the other; fine wine and cigarette smoke, the perfect scent). He hadn't had control of his foggy mind as he hailed a taxi, reciting the address he had visited time and time again, surprising himself with how easily it came back to mind. Even now, standing in the Frenchman's doorway, staring into his sparkling blue eyes as his anchor to sanity, he felt like his actions were no longer his to control. It had been months since they had spoken last, and neither wanted to admit that it was driving them both to the point of insanity. Admitting that meant admitting defeat and swallowing their foolish pride, the very same pride that had led them both to the point of tears so many months before.

They loved with a passion hotter than the sun, and deeper than the darkest ocean trench. Their love was almost too much for them to handle, and when it finally fell, it fell hard, shattering them both on impact. Tears and rage, red, hot rage, had blinded them both, and if you asked them today what caused the fight, neither would remember. All they knew is when the door slammed behind Arthur as he left, it hadn't been opened again until this point.

Arthur held himself a bit higher, gathering what was left of the dignity he abandoned after knocking on Francis' door, and took a deep breath to hold himself together.

"Francis.."

He had no more than uttered that simple name, the name that had meant so much, and his resolve broke away. The island had crumbled into the pounding waves, leaving a trembling mess of a man. One word, and it was all gone. Francis opened his arms as he had so many times before, allowing the other to embrace him, not like the man he tried to be, but as the child he had become. All of the emotion he had kept away, stored for a rainy, nolstalgic day, stained Francis' shirt, as the other tried to soothe him with hushed whispers and consoling murmurs. Every painful memory, from the day of confession that began their story, to the white, hot fire of the fight that wiped the pages clean, came rushing back to them both in that instant, scorching the memories back into their brains. As Arthur fell apart, and Francis struggled to hold them both together, they realized why they had loved at all. And at that moment, the loss meant nothing, and both men knew that all this time they had been living with half a heart. And maybe it would happen again. Maybe they would grow too hot, and fall apart, only to build themselves up stronger once more. But for the moment, they knew that no matter what happened, they could no longer stand to live without the other.

Without their disastrous love, their was no life at all.


	2. Second Thoughts

It was the right thing to do, Arthur told himself. He needed to escape, to get away from the life he believed was suffocating him. With the remaining fragments of his old life stuffed in his old leather suitcase, he boarded the plane with a heavy heart. Arthur was leaving it all behind, every joyous memory and remaining scar. The only simple things he brought with him was a tattered, worn notebook, his most treasured possession, and a few pieces of clothing that he couldn't bear to leave. Among them, a suit jacket, almost bright and gaudy enough to be considered tacky, but not quite. It was fashionable to say the least, and not at all something he would ever dare to wear in public. But no matter how much he tried, he couldn't leave it behind, because it still smelled like /Him/. The old, almost stale scent of cigarette smoke, intertwined with the clean fragrance of a freshly blossomed Lilly, the favorite flower of his favorite Frenchman. It was an intoxicatingly perfect combination that would leave his head spinning and his knees weak at even the slightest hint of it. Francis may be the only thing he's leaving that would be missed.

The longer he sat on the plane, the higher it climbed into the clouds, Arthur drowned in the memories of his lost love. He imagined the Frenchman coming home from his art studio, his home away from home, wearing his ridiculous beret and that charming smile he never left home without, his eyes shining with the love reserved for only him. He envisioned how the spark in his eyes would dull, smile dropping instantly as he noticed the foreign emptiness of their small apartment, and the lone note Arthur had taped to the granite counter. His normally intricate, elegant writing wouldn't reveal the dark news held in the few, simple words until it was too late. Arthur could feel his heart clench as he pictured the exact moment when the thought hit Francis; his love wasn't coming back. His hand would fly to his mouth, dramatic as he always was, this time to stifle a sob. He would be alone, so there was no reason for the blonde to hinder the tears, if he even had that much strength, that were now streaming down his cheeks, warm with his pain as they dripped on the piece of faded parchment that marked the loss of Love.

As all of these thoughts swarmed the Brit, his head began to throb, breath picking up as his heart began to race. And 1500 feet in the air, intent on escaping the routine, monotonous life he lived, Arthur had a revelation; he didn't want to go. He didn't want to leave behind all he'd ever known, all the familiar and the comfortable that he held close. Tears began to build, and even as he willed them away, the lone thought of living without Francis to hold him upright was slowly tearing him apart. He was there when the Brit was at his very worse, not once did he flee. And here Arthur was, in all his selfishness and pride, fleeing from something his very heart and soul was longing for. He held his face in his hands as a small sob fell from his lips, coming to the realization that there was no going back now. All he had was a tacky jacket to cling to for sanity on this forsaken plane, and the bitter thought that Francis would not be there, greeting him with always open arms, as he got off. And suddenly, everything was suffocating again.


End file.
